The Profligate: A Play in Four Acts

by Arthur Wing Pinero

Wilfrid Brudenell.

I never thought I should hurt you by what I’ve said. What I was foolish enough to think was—that perhaps you—didn’t dislike me.

Janet Preece.

Dislike you! Why, there’s no book in the world that’s long enough, and no poetry ever written that’s sweet enough, to match what I think, but can’t say, in gratitude to you and Mrs. Renshaw.

Wilfrid Brudenell.

Ah, we don’t want you to thank us, Janet—unless it’s by a tinge of colour in your white face. You make me feel how mean I’ve been to ask for your love.

Janet Preece.

Oh, stop, stop! I can’t bear you to say such a thing.

Wilfrid Brudenell.

I’ve no right to press you for the reason you can’t love me.